3305. GRIEF HAS A FUTURE

GRIEF HAS A FUTURE

It is said (I've heard it said) that

grief has a future  -  with eyes you

can recognize, with a face that bears

resemblance (bears resemblance nightly

to a million things). I will write these notes,

and keep them (keep them here, by this

candlelit nook). She is crying again, and 

all those raging teardrops roll down her face.

-

In the alcove and hallway, there is a little,

dim shining, a reflection of something old,

or something new in passing. Something

passes (something passes that way, away).

It seems to be a living thing, yet flickers,

fades, and then  -  it too  -  passes.

(It too passes away).

3304. I DROVE THE SEDAN

I DROVE THE SEDAN
I drove the sedan that went right past
your mountain house, the gulch in the
gully, the wandering curve in the road.
I saw the swans on McAfee Road, and
the pond alongside Albion Hall. It was
all I could do not to stop. Simply stalled,
like that, I would have had nothing to
show for all that went before.
-
The red on the barn, I noted, had faded;
a less-intense and fiery red, a dimmer
version of the hue, the same sort of
flame a dying ember throws, a marker
cast down on a charcoal-filled earth.
I shuddered in thinking, here again,
of all the things I might have passed.

-

And then I read your words, making

me happy and sad together - how my

words made pictures in your mind,

and how emotions were awakened

that you could recognize. I loved

those words, and tried to thank

you for them though I failed.

-

I drove the sedan that went past

your mountain house - two doors,

four wheels, and all my mounting

and trying with it. Just as I passed,

in your window was a well-lit love.

3303. VINDICATOR I MUSED

VINDICATOR I MUSED

Do not allow the wise one to relish your

goods and ways - keep such thoughts at bay.

Enamored of everything else, he passes you by.

Fir trees along the Glimmerglass, James Fenimore

Cooper and his warrantless braves. Escaping

settlers, running through woods with muskets

and knives. Beneath a long-tarred and starry

sky, murderous yells and murder itself. I once

gazed down, from a gentle height, past trees

and shrubbery below, to the lakefront itself.

A fire beckoned, and three or four men huddled.

Whatever tongue they were speaking, I did not

understand. Yet, I knew they were ruthless

men and would kill me if they could. I was born

here, 'neath the reedy place, by the brook, beneath

the Spirit's canopy of light. Now, all things were

in jeopardy, myself included. I lived, only if they

died. I thought of a future, realizing there could

be none at all. Sweeping down, silently at first,

then with a scream, I cleanly killed

and gutted the them all.

3302. THE BEARDING OF NIPPLES

THE BEARDING 

OF NIPPLES

The bearding of nipples on the great

divine chest has been replaced by

obligation and noblesse. I do not

know  -  but think I can recognize

the genuflect of fear and awe by

which Man is harnessed : a 

something amiss that will always

show. To that I can testify and

witness, and will do so.

-

Such error is an invisible charge

which draws out the joy from life -

small, insignificant segment, iota

of semblance, sanctified sadness

of sentence, whatever.

-

In spite of solace and shame, the

even-yellow sun goes on, and

we are as lost in its circle and orb

as ever before  -   not knowing

where to turn but turning, not

knowing what for. 

-

Doubts and triumphs together:

I walk out with them, and

somehow leave alone.

3301. MERCHANDISE MART

MERCHANDISE MART
I hated your mother and never fathomed your
father. The Ides of March, like some delectable
yet stinking disease, kept my crapmouth from
hedging every bet. As I recall, she wore gold
on every other finger, while he wore chains
around his neck. It was never right, and,
as I thought it over just today, I still could
not understand why we even lived to try :
some linen on the back of a chair, a table,
topped by glass, holding some ceramic
figurines and a cup of steaming coffee.
An old piece of mail, with a very
foreign stamp. Two pictures of
a man from Africa.
-
Safari suit and dead-letter office, Nairobi
Kenya and a fountain pen blotch; stroked
feathers while whistlers waited, and the
fan-light in the old bushman's depot.
He'd taken us there, to show off and
buy lunch. I remember that photo.
Nothing ever worked out.
-
He too was dead, a single poison dart
entering his heart; along the beach.
Jim Rattigan, killed from some
jungle-tree ambush far, far
from home.

3300. AMENDED AND VARIANT

AMENDED AND VARIANT

You've made me disappear - stiletto and sabre,

all those things passed from lethargy to slavery

and back. Reflected globes are shimmering in the

water, on surfaces where they should not be.

So many things, rejected, seem still to be around.

Solace, like a pancake, flattens and distorts the

angles. We wash the air with a teary dirge.

-

It was ice cream. It was the night. Kinglets sang;

narrow drawers held hundreds of the little birds.

Festering, from tree to tree, bad vibrations rang,

motions without merit, dangling items left for

play. A thin flashlight line, and a bead of some

illumined moment, again made me think of you.

I reached for nothing, and it was there.

-

All along the spider's web, the masses in the

street kept marching; screaming they were,

all together, like morons, as one about something:

Hustled and hassled, huddled and huge.

I never understood a thing except my own

needs - for silence, detachment,

disconnection and dreaming.

3299. FAST SETTING AND MIRACULOUS

FAST SETTING 

AND MIRACULOUS

Skyfall. I was the one running. The new

crescent moon hung angled in the sky.

Twilight. Midnight. Morning. Like nothing

ever moved at all. I truncated the rebels

at the old border's edge. Rousted them

with ricochet and raiment, ran their

footsores loosely through the gamut.

Trumpets blared and a parrot sang.

Valley Forge and Maple Gorge, the lasses

in the violet sky were singing. No one bent

the dirges or bowed to dawn's early light.

Every blessed thing was every blessed thing.

-

The scourpath beguiled; all the marshalls

and a major stopped and gaped while

horses whinnied, slept and yawned.

That's just the way it went back then,

in that - older - revolution. Years later,

lifetime achievements and medals of honor

never meant as much; never. And now,

all the old ones, they're gathered on the

hilltop singing songs, dirges to what occurred

and hopeful scats to the newest of volcanoes.

3298. WHO RUES MELCHISIDEK? (I was walking with this God)

WHO RUES

MELCHISEDEK?

(I was walking with this God)

The white pants and the rain God,

all those magnificent things parading

down. 'I am King of Gods, mistaken

notion, keeper of ideal flames.' Spoken

like a boast, I could only think of

Patty Miles. 'But you are not, sir,

and all, all of this, is mistaken. So

let me take this peasant pomp you

proffer and run away with it, right

through your nose, in fact.'

-

And just then, right along Girard Ave.,

the Philadelphia streetcar clanged and

rattled. Some ten black fats got off

as one - 'You are, myself, I see, one

of these. Are you not, then?' He tried

taking my hand; he said 'Let us be off

now, and to the kennels. Let us buy

ourselves a dog!' Approbation.

Infatuation. Circulation.

-

Just below the street-level fence, cut

out from where I was, I saw the rails of

the old cemetery graveyard fence jutting

out - all those dead and quiet people,

oh all those dead and quiet people.

3297. EPITAPH

EPITAPH

His odd life agreed with him.

He developed piles and scurvy;

lost patches of hair, and  -  finally  -

a few teeth, before he somehow

sweated to death while freezing.

3296. LAYOUT

LAYOUT

This garb is what we wear, the blue frothy
coat, the red buttons, the lame glimmer-scarf
and the hat. On stage, it comes out very colorful
after they first tint the lights. The way they
want them. The way I never see. The way
it's been. It's hard looking out when
you're outside looking in.
-
Some then call me distant, others call me
gay, while others simply say 'weird wide
and on the way.' I take it all; as if on a Hallmark
Hallmark card from Hell, I can read the funny
lines and cry no matter. Shake my hand,
God-damn, and it comes off in yours.
Your joke will be my loss.
-
And now, for the ten-millionth-hundredth time,
the same old raging bastards are calling it
Halloween. Pagan-festive-fire-fest, soldiers
of the dim and dark dance naked 'round
oil-barrel fires at Washington and 12th.
Yes, yes, I was there for many. And the
Wolfman turning back and forth again:
wolf, man, man, wolf, wolf, man, man, wolf.
-
We never got drunk beneath the broad, full moon.

3295. DAY OF THE LOCUST

DAY OF THE LOCUST
On the day of the locust I was in
Brooklyn, waiting my turn at
Grimaldi's; watching the bridge
throw its harbor-fleet shadows
now over nothing at all. Tonnage
and cargo, long gone, had absconded
to regions that only the netherworld
knew. A maritime flag on the outpost
wharf? It simply signified yet
another place to wine and dine.
-
A hundred faces paced the walk -
those strange tattooed artists and
their bedfellow girls, those pierced
and dainty females all done up for
voyeuristic sex and the ribald
entertainments of Lebanese
sharks. Why am I waiting,
here at Grimaldi's, for
really nothing at all?
-
Everything is accidental,
and sharpshooters run
rampant all along the
shoddy rooflines.

3294. SURETY AND A NOTION

SURETY AND A NOTION
All these terrible days, and then you're

going to tell me I have to die? I don't
believe this. Like the windward willow
bending to the lake, dreary to droop
but staying in place, I withstand every
urge to flee. And I will do so too. I will
not die. You can mark my words, even
after I'm dead and gone.

3293. DRIVING HOME THE POINT

DRIVING HOME THE POINT

(my Mexican Chef)
They bat for average, and I'm dizzy as hell.
Can't stand straight. Whole world spins.
No way is that to pin the tail on the donkey.
Right, amigo. Go for broke, both you and
your little senorita there. Drive that Taurus
until it dies, runs out of gas or burns. Tar
the roof all day, spin, weave, flip - food,
pizza or gas. Whatever it is you do for dough.
Money I mean; the American stuff. All the
points along the border are pointing to here.
Are they not, Carlos Mendicimo Armagandos
Perez Aguirre? I think that was the name on
you tag. Brewmaster. Soup-chef.

3292. JUST OUT OF PETERSBURG

JUST OUT OF PETERSBURG
My mind recalls a hundred things.
My mind is filled with a million thoughts,
and I remember a few as well - each vivid
but 'just passing through', as the 'so-to-say'
crowd would utter. Why am I facing the
Gulf of Finland, just looking out from some
Petersburg scat - a paranormal fog, a
slithery eel of creeping light that now,
alone itself, barely illumines this
cavernous station for trains, which,
in themselves, seem as reluctant
to move as I do? The language
I am hearing is itself struggle
enough to listen to.
-
In my own country, we have small
music halls, auditoriums, as it were,
where people sit to listen. People,
filled with salt and sugar, nod and
bob to what the sounds direct
them. Not here - enormous
patchulated music halls
infringe on space and time,
forcing vast musics on all
those open and unaltering
musical ears.
-
Well, it is said, there is little
difference anyway. Perhaps.
But I have come by train to
this far and barely electric
place to take my spot behind
a bass. And here I am, now
silent - or just as silent as
History is - without a real
story to tell, yet filled with
thoughts and lore and tales,
looking out towards the
Gulf of Finland.

3291. NEUKIRK TO OSTERGAARD

NEWKIRK TO OSTERGAARD
While not knowing anything, all the known
world - nonetheless - drops at your
feet. Can you recognize such feasance,
understand the noise? The streamlining
of a bird, ancient as it is, is but idle banter
in the hands of a greater Maker. All time
ticks to this imagined tune, and every
ancient mariner knows these tales :
the bright star, set on high, the
the lethal barriers found at the
very edge of the world, the end
of all things, just around
that seaward curve.

3290. LEARNING YOUR TONGUE

LEARNING YOUR TONGUE
I dug your language at Vladivostok.
Getting too close to Korea, I started
to fear. All that Trans-Siberian
Railroad stuff kept me in stitches:
that stern Russian tongue, those
beautiful girls stiffing their lips
to curl at their nose just to say
'If you are from another land,
if you would love me, I could
make you very happy if you
would take me away.' Anyway
that's how I translated it - the train
guide said I was close, but also 'they
are really eastern whores dressing
right here for your silent masquerade.'

3289. RECITAL AT GROVES

RECITAL AT GROVE
We take these things for granted:
the blood-red heart, the feelings
it throws. High above, some jewel-blue
sky tries echoing back all that we feel.
The jet-plane zones off, its race to
altitude now hardly worth the humming.
Tired days, these are, when the roar
and cacophony of our own intentions
spills. We stop at nothing. We go to France.
-
Your milk-money, I'd noticed, was still
pinned to your dress. No way to travel,
honey. In each of those dangerous lands
you speak of you'd be a sitting duck. Why
I myself, were I there, might lunge to
get you, take you, steal your goods
and money. It's just like that, doesn't
really mean a thing. We are traveling
people, our generations switch roles.
-
I'd much rather stay behind, now that
I think it over, and sing of happy fields
and wandered pastures, coves and
hamlets where I'd been to before.
This recital at Grove, this reverie,
would be my own personal moment
of true joy and happiness.

3288. OMAHA THEATER

OMAHA THEATER
They were still holding the
branding irons in their
tumultuous hands; iron men,
fellows with sizzling arms.
The stench was awful - a
foul reek of burned flesh
punctuated by the calls
and groans of the anguished
animals. A cruel fest, a fight
by fire to name the herd
and brand the beast.
Callow-hearted fellows,
to say the least, just
stood around, laughing.

3287. THE CIVIL WAR

THE CIVIL WAR
Wheeze forth great nation dead and
bloodied, power has now left your hands.
The willow trees escape, there is smoke
and fire o'er the land. And for how long have
you really wanted this? Let us count.
-
The dead are in their sepulchres. They
sound alike their meanings all - the
Civil War graveyard of Elmira's bare
middle, all stories and columns and
words. The smoking guns, crossed,
atop what passes for a Union flag.
-
I haven't yet left before I've yet
arrived, and these beating memories
resound like flame and sorcery
in small boys' eyes. It is over!
It is over! My God, my God,
why have you forsaken me?

3286. MY AMNESTY

MY AMNESTY

To let you go? To fire up that silly
stove again? To singe the butter

on the rafters, make the rye bread
squirm? Whatever are you talking of?
I hadn't heard the headmaster before,
merging manners with the queen of
something else, the measure of the
mattered hand, the Matterhorn of
Marmaduke. It's all like unreality,
now itself so real. Make that twice
over, and once again. I drink to that.
-
The page-boy look, once wasted on the
young, has climbed its ladders to the distant
stars. Babel to Baba-Lou. Gravestone
side-steppers to the gabled mansions of
Erewhon and Potupoi - I have them
all, and they've stopped my minding.
-
Now, it's only you.

3285. LOOSELAND LOOSESTRIFE

LOOSELAND LOOSESTRIFE
These gardeners I see holding shovels
and sticks, they are talking amongst
one another. They stand on grass -
it would seem - more than principal.
-
And now it begins to drizzle again.
From where they are standing, more
annoyance than fact. The rain
puts their cigarettes out.

3284. WARFARE, PESTILENCE, AND GREETINGS

WARFARE, PESTILENCE,
AND GREETINGS

Standing towards the end of my life I'd swear to
see you - dunking lightbulbs, or swishing girders gladly
in the old and open Delaware Canal. Where we may have
passed as strangers, where we may have lived together.
I don't know. My dirigible sensations are gone, these
tired fingers rankle now with only dead pages, and -
all else together - I too await the ferryman to take me.
'You were born to live, my boy, as much as you were
born to die. Fear not the ferryman, he will always come by.
It's just a matter of time : warfare, pestilence, and greetings.'
-
I held you close, once, as a little girl. We shared time together.
Then, older and later, we moved along the same towpath,
it seemed, until even the donkeys and mules collapsed.
If they could talk, I knew they would have said 'this
pulling barges is just no fun.' But I was in another
world, and lived between the times. The meadows,
being once meadows, always fit me fine. Now, it
seems they're paved with discontent. Yours is
yours, and mine is mine. It's all just a matter
of time : warfare, pestilence, and greetings.

3283. MODELING FOR PRESS AGENTS

MODELING FOR
PRESS AGENTS
Just like Modigliani, or one of his
things, we drive for respect in
oh so languid poses. Half-draped,
half-not; watching the clock to
see what transpires. Everything
we do is done for effect, after,
of course, cause. Twilight dims
the rim of time, as we sit,
so lazily about.

3282. AND SUCH A GLIMMERING WILD ONE

AND SUCH A GLIMMERING WILD ONE
We used to hang at street-corners, leaning on stone,
skipping a beat, watching glass and water : no, no,
we never stopped. The hard-angled zoo we inhabited
with cigarettes and wine, poppers and spikes, all of
that we knew like no others. Leather-girls in their
toney skirts, and not. Hookers at Stage 9, playing
dead-dice with the boys. Wonton chefs, singing
weird Chinese songs. I never knew collaboration
to taste so good. It was a long, long time ago.
-
And just now you used a name I had not heard
since 1974 and before. I do remember him,
precisely, and even where his body stays.
Some nasty crypt near Bedloe's Island,
some Potter's Field, or one of those.
Those were East River days: they
took his lifeless body over on a skiff,
and soon came back without him.
-
We once pumped the monkey full
of juice, ate the girl before she came,
wired down the torchlights for the
approaching storm. Now, Jesus lord
almighty, it's all so over and gone.
Distant memory, afar, like an
iron taste on a bitter tongue.

3281. POST-APOCALYPTIC VENISON

POST-APOCALYPTIC
VENISON

Everyone who could
had already died.

3280. WHAT WAS SCHEDULED ONCE IS NOT WRITTEN TWICE

WHAT WAS SCHEDULED ONCE
IS NOT WRITTEN TWICE

Bleistein with a Baedeker, remember that one? Or anyway, I
think I've gotten it right - he held two fingers aloft, and judged
accordingly, laughed at the moon once, and walked on. Just
today, returning from some stupid romance, I watched the
calendar sky disappear: it passed right through my ages,
and left me thinking of nothing at all. Not the way of all
Mankind, exactly, but it would have to do.
-
Standing alongside the moon-faced pie girl, I watched
the building come down. Piece by piece now, they were
ripping at its facade. Two-hundred year old brick, simply
turning - under pressure - to an orange powder.
The noise glass makes, over and over, and then
the steel of the window-frames hitting ground.
Park-dirt this was not, nor did it seem exactly
even proper to do demolition in this way.
-
Who knew what I don't know? This cloth-fed
engineer, the Greek with the clipboard veneer,
walking around looking at things as they
happened? Was he the one with all the plans?
Sacred or not, as it happened, one old church,
lane-split, and a housing unit or two, all
chunked together. 'To whom are you
reporting now?' I wanted to ask. But
my tumbled tongue was caked with
dust. The moon-faced girl near to
me, she smiled and just took my
hand to lead me away.
So I followed.

3279. ANGELS

ANGELS
I'm surely not one to be wrestling
with Gods and the beatific window
dressings I see: five angels clutching
beads, a running man with a fiery
halo, an infant holding things down.
This fortuitous moment itself
knows nothing; runs aside,
tries to glide. Let's put our heads
together, let's sing and praise -
your multi-colored straw bag,
your orange-painted nails,
your sandals and your Snapple.
My God, my God, we have
come to this!
-
Not an occasion for malice, this
watching the sunlight grow,
opening up the nighttime skies
wherein I have been walking
for hours - endless hours that
were not from here. And, yes,
still I know what I see; and they
have dropped me here with
their extended, small wings.
-
Which wings are but concept,
anyway, idea. Like the thought
of how much blue is in that black.
Beatific angels, I ask you. The
light is now playing on the bricks,
and this faulty city is all I see.
Oh in such pain I cry out to you,
please, please, please
listen now to me.

3278. KNOXVILLE SHAKEOUT

KNOXVILLE SHAKEOUT
My Knoxville shakeout came like this:
plane wings down, hit the tarmac,
grab a bag and walk the ellipse. Tuba
player and sing-shift clarinetist both
along for the ride. Observe the stage,
survive the ride. At half past seven,
(yeah, they'd written it all out), the
music was to begin. Stride forth
like some piano man surely
breaking wind.
-
The crowd was along in pairs,
two by fours and tuxedo junctions.
Sitting to stare, small cocktails
in smaller glasses, half dead or
half awake it wouldn't have really
mattered. Why we played on,
to the stroke of one, I'll
never really understand.
-
Got paid in Rue Diablos, some
Devil-money shaped like squares.
I knew this was over before it
started; 'Joe! There's the
plane, get up those stairs!'

3277. A SIMPLE SETTLEMENT

A SIMPLE SETTLEMENT
I've always hated all that
retro stuff, and those who
side with matter gone -
I've had my Marilyn on
the halfshell while my
stomach groaned and
burned. 'Write quickly,'
the matador said, 'for
Venus de Milo is
arriving soon.'

3276. MY MEXICAN ELLIPSE

MY MEXICAN ELLIPSE
Luck brings this morning passing
strange, a break I'd not foreseen -
the girl with cornrow hair now
whistling some turgid tune.
Each synapse I own declares:
'Race this moment to its finish,
and you are nothing if
not what you seem.'

3275. THE DOGS OF WAR

THE DOGS OF WAR
When sometimes the dogs of war
are snarling, and rabid, tug their
leashes, then the foiling sun with
great reluctance deems it best
to set. All things darken by degree,
and shades and shadows redefine
the lines and shapes of all we see -
how fraught with trepidation,
new, all things are.
-
Might I, then, say this backwards?
Recite some ode of Horace in reverse,
faulting ends and enemies, turning
'round the battles and the fight?
No, I seek the straighter line,
where things, still in rows, hold
tight to all their marks and meanings.

3274. THIS LIFE JUST A TRAGIC ATTRACTION

'THIS LIFE JUST A
TRAGIC ATTRACTION'

'Receding water exposes bodies,
0r at least we expect,' the man said.
His cigarette dangled from pursed, fussy
lips and I fully expected him to gag.
Something there was about this fellow -
made strange by circumstance - brought
me to disbelief. Badge and gun notwithstanding,
if he was the Law, I wanted to be an outsider, now.
-
He'd said his loyalty was to the Law and that
upholding it had become his life's work. 'Yeah,
sure' I thought. I wished I had a five-hundred
dollar bill to dangle in his face - just to see
what he'd do for money. If he knew the Law,
then I knew all about Charley Chase.
-
I watched the back of his head as he
stood there, and I realized right then
that the piece of plastic I saw was actually
the back edge of his wig - toupee, hairpiece,
whatever. Yes, I wanted to laugh, but was
sure it wouldn't be wise. Other than that,
it looked pretty real, or at least I never
had noticed before. Good enough for me.
-
'I admonish you, if you're at all squeamish,
to look away. As we drag these bodies up
it's apt to get ugly.' I knew what he meant,
but I knew just as well it was bullshit - I'd
heard him and his cronies beforehand, talking
of women's bodies and things they had seen.
-
I guess it's like that everywhere - the lark runs the rush,
the beaver breaks the dam, things eventually do
just run out of control. No more stops, and no
one to stop it. This Life, just a tragic attraction.
This life, just a tragic attraction.

3273. WALKING ON THE MOONLIGHT NOT IN IT

WALKING ON THE
MOONLIGHT NOT IN IT

This is the circumstance : what one man wants
is what another avoids. Crystal bright and as
clear as glass, the fir trees seem to stand still
as light from the moon comes to them. I walk
between things, two worlds apart; neither in
nor of the place I am. Strange, how that
silent singularity marks a life.
-
I was raised in a place of wolves; red men
doing white things, white men falling back.
Beneath five hundred skies, I traveled
with wings of gauze 'midst azure skies.
The rocks and stones beneath me,
they each called out my name.
-
Epochs of time and eons of purpose.
I waltzed hills and valleys, danced
voluble dinosaur steps, ran fiery
sabre-toothed tigers in my racing.
My days were numbered and caught
by starlight and solar flares, brilliant
moments of flash and glory.